


The Blame Game and Other Mature Pursuits

by Wiggins



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Dad Inquisitor, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, I Blame Tumblr, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Original Character-centric, Species Dysphoria, Species Swap, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 08:59:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13361130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiggins/pseuds/Wiggins
Summary: In which a man and his daughter wind up in Thedas.In which genetics are rearranged, but family transcends shape.In which the Inquisitor is a father to his people and the Team Mom simultaneously.9/12/18: ON HIATUS DUE TO IRL EVENTS.





	1. In which there is a beginning.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RunMild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunMild/gifts), [shuofthewind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuofthewind/gifts).



> The adventures of Kossith!Dad!Inquisitor and his Tiny!City!Elf!Daughter.
> 
> This started as a discussion with the two people to whom it is gifted. I will add chapters as they occur to me, but I don't promise that they will be linear. This is mostly a massive pit of brainstorming hilarity and assorted nonsense. I will absolutely take requests, assuming they inspire me. If you have specific questions about Dad!Quiz and his Daughter, feel free to throw them at me and help me flesh out this concept.

If anyone had been watching the southern approach to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, they would have seen a very odd sight indeed. The pair steadily making their way across the snowy hills and through the maze-like growth of indigenous trees was the very image of ‘incongruous,’ to say the least. Luckily for them, nobody _was_ looking at the southern approach, chiefly because nobody thought anyone would be strange enough to travel from the frozen wilds of the south to the Conclave, shortly to be held at the recently restored Temple.

Make no mistake: the duo was, in every sense of the word, _strange_.

If anyone had been close enough to hear the words being passed back and forth between the pair, they would have been quite confused. Assuming, of course, that the theoretical eavesdropper was Thedosian in origin. If the theoretical eavesdropper was, in fact, from Earth, they would have a far better chance of understanding the language being used. English was one of the more common languages on that planet, though by no means the most popular or widely spread. However, _if_ the eavesdropper was from Earth or _if_ they had somehow in some other way learned English, the following conversation, while entertaining, would likely not have cleared up any confusion.

“This is your fault.”

A scoff. “How do you figure that?”

“ _You_ grabbed the wheel.”

“There was a dog! Would you really rather I let you hit that poor dog?”

A sigh. “In normal circumstances, _no_ , but these aren’t normal circumstances.”

“How was I supposed to know that we’d hit ice?! Or go over the cliff?! Or-“ an expansive gesture.

“You had no way of knowing about-“ a similar expansive gesture, “but you _did_ know about the ice. That was incredibly dangerous _and you know it_. How many times do I have to tell you, if you have to choose between _your_ safety and an _animal’s_ , I want you-“

“To pick me. I mean, _my_ safety. Yeah, I know. I wasn’t thinking.”

A sigh, a pause, and then a large hand squeezing a much smaller, slighter shoulder: “You were thinking about the dog.”

“Yeah.”

“I know how much you love dogs.”

A miserable sniff. “I really do.”

“I love dogs, too. But _you’re_ more important to me. Sweetheart, you will _always_ be more important to me.”

“I know. I’m sorry, dad.”

“I know, and I forgive you.” A sigh. “Lets keep moving. We need to try and find shelter before it gets dark.”

After several more minutes of struggle through and over the snow: “Do you have any idea _where_ we are?”

“Yes.”

“…and you didn’t say something earlier… _why_ , exactly?”

“I was a little distracted-“ a slightly smaller, though still expansive, gesture. “For good reason!”

“Okay, fair, but we've been walking for - ugh, don't change the subject!  You know _where_ we are…so do you know _what_ we are?!”

“Yes.”

“ _And_ …?”

“We should find shelter first, then talk. It’s going to be a long story.”

A sigh. “Fiiiiiine.”

“You’re going to hate it.”

“Why, is it a kissing story?”

“Not necessarily, but it does have magic.”

“Huh…and here I was hoping we’d landed on Hoth.”

“Think less ‘laser sword,’ think more ‘Lord of the Rings.’”

A pause. “Dad. Did we land in that stupid game you won’t shut up about? ‘Dragon Time?’”

“I think so…? And it’s ‘Dragon _Age_.’”

“You think we’re in ‘Dragon Age.’ The one with the creepy hive-zombies and magic slavery and massive political unrest?”

“The civil conflicts are actually really-“

“Dad.”

“Yes, I think we’re in ‘Dragon Age.’”

“Fuck!”

“ _Language_!”

“I am an _adult_ , I will swear _when_ and _where_ I feel it is called for, and _it is called for_!”

“Please stop yelling, the last thing we need right now is an avalanche.”

“I can’t believe we’re in your stupid video game.”

“It’s not stupid, it’s a very-“

“Dad?”

“...yeah?”

“Dog aside, this is _totally your fault_.”


	2. In which Blackwall adopts a puppy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The odds of this being Blackwall/OFC are vanishingly slim, just giving you the heads-up now.

Blackwall’s first thought when he saw a figure scrambling through some underbrush towards him was less a thought and more a reflex. His sword was out and in his hand before the person, an elf judging by the general shape and size, had taken two steps closer. The fact that the elf’s expression on seeing his sword was one of obvious relief prompted him to loose his shield from the ties at his back and fall into a ready stance.

Seconds later, an unholy shriek rent the air, sending the elf stumbling to the ground. A pack of shades erupted from the bushes, slinking towards the elf. Blackwall cursed and darted forward. The shades were closer to the elf than he was, if he could draw their attention-

“Oi!” he shouted. “Over here, you bastards!”

The elf had risen and was sprinting towards him, Blackwall thought he just might make it – and then one of the shades lunged, claws glinting in the sunlight, and the elf went down with a piercing scream. He had time and breath to curse just once before he was barreling into the monsters, using his shield to knock one back while he slashed at the side of the one with blood on its claws. He used his momentum to spin into the third, striking it with the edge of his shield and pushing it back enough to grant him room. From there everything was a blur of motion and metal and sweat. That was battle for you: either a moment stretched into hours or it blurred into a haze that could only be revisited in nightmares.

The shades dissolved into an oily goop too thick to be blood and too caustic for an old soldier to investigate. Blackwall ignored it, and turned to the elf. Closer, he could see that the elf was female. Her slight curves were exaggerated by the way she lay, and her rapid breathing. She’d managed to crawl out of the thick of the fight and was curled on her side a few feet away, facing him.

She was young and pretty. Then again, all elves were pretty, unless deliberately made less so – usually by nobles.

Years later and still, even _thoughts_ of Orlais were like rocks in his gut.

Blackwall cleaned his sword and sheathed it before moving closer to the girl. Tears had carved tracks through the dust on her cheeks and her mouth was white from how hard she was pressing her lips together. “Here now, it’s all right,” he said, crouching before her. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to her back.

Her eyes, a pale sort of amber color, inspected him carefully before she nodded.

“Lets take a look at you, then,” he muttered. He moved around to her back, making sure to make noise all the while. He’d dealt enough with refugees, especially elven-kind, to know to do that. With some it didn’t make a difference, but he always tried to make the effort. “Well, looks like you’ve got Andraste’s blessing, girl,” he said, relieved he'd not have to offer her mercy. The shade had gotten her, scoring three perfect lines down her back, but they were shallow and ran parallel to her spine instead of striking it.

She craned her neck around to see what he was doing, squinting at him suspiciously.

“Let me help you up,” he said, fitting word to deed and taking her arm. He provided most of the muscle in getting her back to her feet. He was pleased when she swayed against him, but managed to keep her balance. “Good, now my camp is back there a ways,” he said, pointing. “If I take you there, I can get you bandaged up. There’s another camp of refugees about a mile that way,” he pointed again, “if you’d rather wait and let a woman see to it.”

She stared at him, frowning.

“Miss?”

She opened her mouth, and said something very fast in a language he didn’t understand.

“You… don’t speak Trade?”

She shrugged at him, then whimpered quietly as the motion pulled on her wound, swaying into him once more.

“Do you speak Orlesian?” he asked hopefully, slipping into the tongue with ease in spite of long years disuse.

She carefully shook her head.

Blackwall stared at her blankly as the implications of an elf with no knowledge of Trade or Orlesian occurred to him. “Bugger.”

If Tevinter was already here, taking advantage of the chaos to spirit away the lost and the hopeless for their filthy trade… He eyed the girl again, more critically. She was tall for a female elf, slight but obviously well fed. She was about as filled out as an elf was capable of being. Her clothing was quite simple, even under the dust and blood: tunic and trews in a faded green cotton. He’d never had any especial partiality for her kind but she was young, healthy, and quite pretty what with her pale amber eyes, tanned skin and dark red-brown hair. Even if she did speak the language of the land, there was every chance she might, _no_ , he knew that she _would be_ taken advantage of if left on her own. Add into that her background as a slave-

“Right, you’ll be coming with me for now,” Blackwall decided.

Unaware of his internal musings, she only eyed him, confusion furrowing her brow.

“Blackwall,” he introduced himself, tapping his chest. He extended his hand and let his fingers hover a few inches from her collarbone, eyebrow raised in query.

“Evie,” she said, smiling tentatively and showing very even, very white teeth.

If he left her alone she’d be back in slavers’ chains before sundown.

* * *

The next few weeks in the Hinterlands were evenly split between surviving, which meant protecting Evie, and training folks to defend themselves, which now included Evie, and teaching Evie as much Trade as he could cram into every day. She, in turn, taught him a few words in her language, which was probably not Tevene. If Blackwall had to hazard a guess, he supposed it might be one of the languages they spoke in Seheron, he’d heard strange stories about the people there.

She was quicker to learn languages than she was to pick up the sword, but he could tell she was trying her hardest at both. She listened to everything he told her, which was another mark in his internal ‘probably a slave’ tally. Then again, sometimes after he told her something she’d just stare at him, amber eyes narrowed, and he _knew_ she was thinking it over and deciding whether or not to listen. He didn’t object to these moments, since none of them ever came in the heat of actual battle, and it heartened him to know there was spirit there.

Her clear helplessness in the wilderness was another mark in his internal tally, though between that and her suspicion of him at the outset he was uncomfortably certain that she’d been a body slave. Blackwall made the boundaries between them very clear, never touched her without warning or permission, unless in the context of teaching her to fight. He'd mustered up enough extra cloth to make up a second bedroll, and hers was separate from his. Every time they met up with a group of refugees or locals, she would bundle herself up in his spare cloak and stay as close to him as possible, watching the strangers with wide, wary eyes.

Blackwall got used to dealing with side-eyes and uncomfortably slick smiles from the men and pursed lips and puckered brows from the women, at least until he started up whatever lessons he planned to teach. The moment that that happened, Evie invariably dumped the cloak and proceeded to bounce around him like an eager Mabari pup.

“You teach?” she would ask, broken Trade sounding almost musical in her accent.

“I’ll be teaching them,” he would agree.

“I learn,” she would decree, and settle in beside his other students.

That was the point where confusion took over, a confusion that Blackwall did not go out of his way to assuage.

Better that they think her his _paramour_ than that they try for something she might not understand how to refuse.

By the end of the third week, he privately thought of Evie as something like a squire. She learned rapidly, and if she wasn’t naturally talented with the sword, at least he had enough knowledge of the bow to get her started. She was picking up more and more Trade, enough so that they were starting to have actual conversations. He still wasn’t entirely sure what to do with her, but he figured that if he – they – were all facing the end of the world, there were worse people to spend his last days with.

Of course, that was when the Inquisition came for him.


	3. In which there is a reunion and Varric is pretty sure he's seen everything (he's wrong).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could probably retitle this fic as "the one where everyone has too many parents."

Evie was focused on the lesson because the lesson would help her _stay alive_ in this medieval shithole. She had a shield in one hand and a sword in the other, neither sat comfortably in her grip. Blackwall was growling out something stern and borderline mean to the men in line with her. She could only make out something like one word in ten when he spoke to others. In training like this, between her prior instruction and a decent grasp on body language she could mostly follow along.

“Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?”

She pivoted at the sound of the deep, resonant voice.

There was a human, an elf, a dwarf, and a _mountain_ – it was like the start of a bad joke.

Blackwall was already storming over to the intruders, saying something angry. Then there was an arrow, the sudden appearance of the bandits they’d been tracking on and off for three days, and battle was joined. Evie still wasn’t used to it and she cringed as she met the sword of one of the bandits with her own short blade. She was more relieved than startled when she was suddenly knocked to the side, out of the fray, by another elf.

He slanted a glare her way, then spun the staff in his hand and let loose a torrent of fire at the bandits.

Evie flinched as the smell of burning flesh assailed her nose. She’d gotten used to it enough so that it didn’t make her vomit immediately, but her stomach still roiled within her. _Definitely never eating pork again_ , she decided, yet again, in spite of knowing that she’d eat whatever Blackwall set before her, and she’d be grateful for the privilege.

The elf mage and his companions, along with Blackwall and the new trainees made short work of the bandits. Evie felt stirrings of guilt that she hadn’t been more helpful, and at the same time a subdued relief that she hadn’t had to kill anyone. She knew the day was coming, but the longer she could put it off the happier she’d be. She’d injured a few men with her bow, shot down some larger game, but that was different. She told herself it was different, even knowing it was a lie, because that was all that kept her from falling to gibbering pieces at the madness her life had become.

“…Evie?”

She turned, expecting Blackwall, and startled a little when she came face-to-face with a hulking gray giant. The gray giant had two massive curly horns growing out of his head, charcoal colored hair, and amber brown eyes she _recognized_ even though the face they were set in had been transformed to an astonishing extent.

“Dad?” she whispered.

“Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me,” he said in a wavering voice.

She immediately threw herself at him, and even if she had to climb a little to reach his arms and wrap her own around his neck, there was nothing strange or unfamiliar about his loving embrace. “Dad, dad, dad, dad,” she cried, pressing her whole _body_ closer. She’d been scared and hungry and hurt and alone and everything was different, even _she_ was different, _her dad_ was different, but he was _here_ and somehow he was still _her dad_.

“It’s all right, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he said, sounding just as broken up and _relieved_ as she was. “I guess you had a change, just like me. At least our eyes and our ears still match. Looks like you came through an elf.”

“And what are _you_? An elf’s bigger, scarier cousin?” she muttered into his neck. It was such a relief to speak _English_.

He snorted. “I’m a Kossith, and there’s something you should know-“

There was a polite cough.

Evie drew back, but kept her arms wrapped around her dad’s neck. Blackwall, the elf mage, a human woman and a male dwarf stood a few feet away. The dwarf was the one who had coughed and, seeing he had their attention, he smiled broadly and asked something that was clearly a question in Trade.

She got ‘who’ from the question, and that was about it.

“I’m Evie,” she said.

At the same time, her father said something in Trade.

Her head whipped to him: “You speak Trade?  _Fluently_?!”

He ducked his head, looking sheepish. “So, it turns out that we might be in the world of that one video game-“

“’Dragon Time?’ We’re in ‘ _Dragon Time_?’”

“It’s ‘Dragon _Age’_ -“

Evie wriggled out of his arms till she was on the ground and glared up at him, hands on her hips. “This is _all your fault_!” she hissed.

“Do you remember how we got here?” he asked patiently.

“No, but-“

“Do you remember _anything_ about how we changed?”

“ _No_ , but-“

“Then how can you be sure it’s my fault?” he said, utterly reasonable.

“We’re in _your game_! If it was _my_ fault we’d be on the Millenium Falcon-“

“-Han Solo is an awful romantic lead-“

“-or flying with _ikran_ -“

“-and that was an awful movie-“

“-at least if we were _in space_ , we’d have _working toilets_!”

He paused at that. “Okay, fair, but it looks like you’ve spent the majority of your time since we got here wandering the wilderness,” he said, brushing a hand over her shoulder and eyeing the dust that clung to his fingers with raised brows. “Are you _sure_ they don’t have working toilets here?”

“No, but,” she eyed his comparatively clean and well-kept armor critically, “it looks like _you’ve_ been in whatever passes for civilization here. _Do_ they have working toilets?”

He slumped, rubbing his face with one hand. “Not that I’ve seen,” he admitted.

She nodded, having expected that, and then poked him in the chest. “Dad, we’re in a magical, _medieval_ video game.” She poked him in the chest again. “ _Your fault._ ”

“Will it help or hurt my case if I tell you they’ve decided I’m some sort of god-chosen messiah?”

“ _Dad_!”

“Also, apparently familiarity with the world translates to a decent ability with the language. I was mostly fluent when I woke up in their dungeon-“

“How is that even _remotely fair_ – wait, did you say _dungeon_?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “They only had me in there for a little while, it’s fine.”

She eyed his companions, then him, dubiously. “Well, you look like you’re okay. Not that I really know what ‘okay’ is for your new species.”

“Yeah, I’m still getting used to it myself. _Horns_ ,” he said, shaking his head with a wry smile. “How are you holding up, kiddo?”

“Better now,” Evie said, smiling at him. “If I have to be in some medieval shithole, at least I’m not alone.”

“ _Language_.”

“Speaking of which, what did he ask?” she said brightly, pointing at the dwarf.

“Stop that, you know it’s rude to point!” he pushed her hand down and rolled his eyes when she stuck her tongue out at him in response. “They want to know who you are,” he told her, then turned and said something in Trade.

Judging by the expressions on everyone’s faces, he’d just explained their relation.

Blackwall went from shock to suspicion very quickly. “Father?” he asked dubiously.

Evie nodded vigorously, grabbing one of her dad’s hands. “My father,” she confirmed, switching languages clumsily.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, why don’t you go grab whatever stuff you’ve got while I explain.”

She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to let the only familiar thing out of her sight.

He smiled, understanding. “I’ll be right here, just don’t go too far, all right?”

“Yeah, okay.” She took a deep breath and released his hand. Turning to Blackwall she translated her intentions to Trade and told him, “I go get my stuff. _We_ go with my father.” She waited until he gave her a stone-faced nod before she hurried to the small abandoned house they’d been using as a makeshift camp for the past few days.

* * *

As soon as the elf had disappeared into the cabin, Varric turned to the Herald with raised brows. “That’s your _kid_? Must take after her mother.”

“Mostly, yeah,” the Herald said, nodding agreeably.

He was smiling, and for the first time it reached his eyes, making them almost seem to shine with his happiness. His entire body language had shifted: his ears were pricked a little higher, his shoulders had settled into a straight line, and he held himself taller. The sudden change from grim-but-reluctant-hero-type to smiling-and-doting-parent was enough to make Varric question everything he’d learned of the man in the past few weeks.

They all knew he’d lost someone in the explosion at the Conclave, but none of them had guessed at a _child_.

“ _That_ is your _daughter_?” Cassandra asked, still clearly grappling with the notion.

Varric saw an opportunity and he took it. “Of course, Seeker, wasn’t it obvious?”

She glared at him.

“I confess myself surprised as well,” Solas said. “How did you come to raise an elvhen child?”

The Herald shot him a flat look. “ _Well_ , Solas, _sometimes_ when a person with a penis and _another_ person with a vagina and-“

“ _Herald_!” Cassandra whisper-shrieked. “Was that really necessary?”

He shrugged. “He asked.”

Blackwall broke in for the first time, “Where were you?”

“What?”

The Warden continued, picking up steam and volume as he went, “I found that girl running from a pack of shades, about to be killed. She didn’t know a word of Trade, or any other language I could think of. She couldn’t hunt. She couldn’t fight. She was completely helpless. She could have been _killed_. So I ask, where were _you_ , her supposed father, in all of this?”

The Herald’s face had drained of all color, leaving him a sickly shade of gray-green. He took a deep breath, and then held up his left hand, which glowed faintly even though they’d cleared out every Rift in what felt like the entire countryside. “Three weeks ago I woke up in a dungeon with _this_. I’ve been fighting ever since.” His hands clenched into fists and Varric, who had seen what an enraged Kossith could do, shifted back on his heels. “I don’t remember how I got this _blasted mark_ , I don’t even remember going to the Conclave. The last thing I remember is traveling with my daughter…” he trailed off and shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. If I’d had any idea she was here, if I’d had any idea she was _alive_ -“ he shook his head again, eyes shutting in remembered pain.

Varric wasn’t the only one who sucked in a shocked breath when the Herald went to his knees in front of the human.

“My daughter is more precious to me than _anything_ in this world. I am in your debt for saving her. If there is anything I can do to repay you, you have only to ask.”

Blackwall cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “You, ah, you said something about the Inquisition?”

By the time the elf girl had finished packing up the cabin, information had been shared and the warrior had agreed to join them.

She bounded up to them, ignoring everyone but Blackwall, to whom she handed a pack, and the Herald, who she climbed for another hug. They were speaking in that strange language they’d used before, arguing again.

As before, the elf appeared to be winning.

Varric sighed, watching them. The truth was always stranger than fiction, as a writer he knew that. Hell, he’d _lived_ that. But watching a Kossith, Chosen by Andraste to lead them to victory over a hole in the sky, being scolded by his tiny _elvhen_ daughter?

He was pretty sure that now, he could officially say, he’d seen _everything_.

 


End file.
